Katsuki paced the rooftop like a general planning a siege, a mischievous spark in his eye.

"Tch... we're gonna make her cry, just watch. She won’t know what hit her."

He turned to the circle of friends he'd gathered—Kirishima, Mina, Denki, Hanta—all of them looking somewhere between amused and horrified.

Denki blinked. "Wait, you mean like... fake your death? Like with blood and everything?"

Katsuki grinned, clearly too satisfied with himself. "Hell yeah. Crime scene. Blood. Maybe a knife sticking out of my chest—get Hanta to rig a wire or some crap."

Mina groaned, rubbing her forehead. "Katsuki, no offense, but that's psychotic. You do realize she’s gonna scream? Like actual trauma-scream. She thinks you're bulletproof emotionally—this’ll wreck her."

Kirishima stepped forward, more serious than usual. "Bro... she cares about you too much for this. You’re her person. If she thinks you’re really—"

Katsuki waved a hand. "She’ll be mad for a minute, then laugh. Idiot’s got guts. And it’s payback for that glitter in my shampoo."

Hanta quietly muttered, "...There’s a massive difference between itchy glitter and psychological scarring..."

Despite their protests, Katsuki was already sketching out plans. But somewhere deep down, that flicker of uncertainty—what if she really cries? What if she looks at him like he’s just a monster playing games with her heart?—it hadn’t caught up to him yet. But it would.